


Reconnaissance

by smidget25



Category: The Hobbit RPF
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, RPF, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-17
Updated: 2015-01-17
Packaged: 2018-03-07 22:50:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3186155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smidget25/pseuds/smidget25
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Ian asked Richard to investigate suspicious activity at a secret base, he was only intending to do some quick undercover recon. </p><p>He doesn't know how he ends up rescuing a super-healer from the hands of the government and taking him home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reconnaissance

**Author's Note:**

> RPF again *face palm* but in only the loosest definition of the word - it's very much an AU. 
> 
> Based on the prompt at the Hobbit kink meme:  
> http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/11683.html?thread=24367267#t24367267
> 
> Does what is says on the tin.

The outside security is no problem at all. 

He loiters outside the front gate after sunset, watching the dimming light cast glittering reflections over the glass. The building looks like an upscale office - he imagines for a law firm or finance company – all open spaces and windowed walls, if not for the sky-high wall that surrounds it. Occasionally, through the bars in the gate, he can see movement; guards criss-cross the premises, changing shifts, fully armed and dressed head to toe in white. 

There are cameras everywhere; he can see the blink-blink of their red lights in the distance. It feels like a warning, but he doesn’t quell – cameras are no use against him. 

He waits, his stomach turning, as the pedestrians brushing past him on him on the pavement begin to die away. It’s getting late, the air is cooling, and he suddenly wishes he had planned his attire with more care. He’s dressed all in black, wearing his comfiest jeans and oldest hoodie, with a leather jacket slung haphazardly over the top. He’s not sure what he’s expecting from this ‘mission’, but he’s brought gloves – to ensure he doesn’t leave fingerprints, as Ian tells him – and pulled his hood down over his face, to disguise his hair. 

It’s not like he needs to hide, he’s got that all covered already, but his power of invisibility – for all of its uses - will not prevent him from leaving vital clues behind. 

He’s unarmed, as agreed, but carrying an old handset to report back, and a disposable camera to gather any evidence he should find. He doesn’t know exactly what he’s looking for; it’s a recon mission, but he knows there have been rumours about the building for years. Maybe it’s just a military base, as most people assume, or maybe it’s simply a banking firm, overly conscious of security - or maybe, just maybe, it’s something else entirely. 

Either way, he’s going to find out. 

There’s a creak of moving metal, and he jumps to attention, as the gate slides open behind him. There are people, workers, dressed in long white robes heading towards the exit. They are whispering in hushed voices, and nod to a guard as they hurry past. 

Sensing his moment, Richard takes a deep breath – checking invisibility is definitely on – before sidling through the open gate. The workers stride around him, oblivious, and the gate grinds to a close behind them. 

He suddenly has the uncomfortable feeling he’s just locked himself in a prison. 

The grounds are far bigger than he imagined from the outside, stretching before him in acres. He can see guard posts in the distance, but in the dark it’s difficult to see how many there are. There is more than one building. The glass building is the centrepiece, but there are smaller centres all around the grounds, some still glowing with light, others looking eerie and abandoned in the night. 

Puffing out a warm breath, which fogs the cold air in front of him, Richard ducks his head down and hurries to the main entrance. There’s something about the place he doesn’t like already – it feels strange and soulless, causing hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end in warning. 

The front door is access controlled, as he expected it would be. There’s no way to open it without setting off alarms. And so he waits again, until a worker comes in from the outside, waving his ID card at the reader. It flashes green and there’s a familiar click of the door opening. Richard hurries in behind the man, trying desperately not to breathe on the back of his neck, before the door swings shut. The man pauses for a moment, brows furrowing, and Richard freezes. There’s an uncomfortable second when the man looks directly at him, unseeing, before his gaze slides away. Richard’s heart unsticks itself from the back of his throat, and he breathes again, unable to prevent a small sigh of relief. 

He’s been like this for as long as he can remember, but it’s still a surprise to realise that people cannot see him. At first, when he was a child, he was unable to control his ability – he would slide in and out of invisibility at random, completely unaware. Although he has long had control of his powers, there are still moments, when he feels as though his invisibility has deserted him – that people will look and they will see. It’s a fear that has never really gone away. 

Attempting to get a hold of himself, Richard approaches the reception, padding as quietly as he can over the tiled floor. He wishes he had worn something other than old trainers, which are surprisingly squeaky; he figures that if he’s going to do super-spy missions, then he might as well look the part. He’s sure ninjas don’t usually scale buildings in jeans and a hoodie. Orlando, no doubt, has his own latex bodysuit and nunchucks. 

A guard is sat at the reception desk, drinking a giant mug of tea and eating a whole pack of chocolate digestives, staring blankly at a row of monitors. Richard hovers over his shoulder, squinting at the moving images. They show every floor of the building. Considering it’s past 10 at night, the office is still surprisingly busy, bustling with workers dressed in white. Are they scientists? Doctors? Richard can see no company sign. 

Everything is plain, stark white, minimalistic in design and lacking in any distinguishing features. The first few offices look normal – as normal as he expects an office to be, not that he’s an expert – filled with rows and rows of computers, printers, and photocopies. The top few floors, however, look like labs. There are samples everywhere – of what he can’t tell – and he can see several workers staring determinedly through microscopes. 

All and all he can see nothing suspicious – it’s almost _too_ unexciting. There’s a nagging sound at the back of his head, whispering to him: you’re missing something. 

He casts his eyes around the reception again, unsure of what to do next. He casts his eyes over every corner of the room, from the sweeping staircase to the side of the desk, to the lobby sofas, which look as though they’ve never been touched, let alone sat on. He’s about to decide that the mission is a waste of time, and the rumours false, when there’s a soft bing from the other side of the lobby. 

An elevator, which he had paid no heed to before, opens, and a man wanders out with a red pass dangling from his neck. He grunts in greeting at the guard and heads down one of the ground-floor corridors. But Richard is paying no attention to the man – he is watching the lift. He hears the dim ‘going down!’ before the elevator door slides shut. 

Blinking slightly in bemusement, he glances back at the security monitors. He runs his eyes over floors 1, 2, 3, and 4. There is no mention of a basement. 

Feeling a thrum of excitement bloom in his chest, he approaches the lift. Like the main entrance, it is access controlled – only a valid ID card will open the doors. 

He is moving before he quite knows what’s happening. He heads in the same direction as the man he had seen exit the lift, heading into a corridor towards one of the main offices. 

When he finds him, the man – short and bespectacled – is talking to a tall man in the otherwise deserted hallway, in lowered and hurried voices. The other man is old, very old, but tall and proud. Long white hair streams down the back of his neck, and his beard is streaked with black. His pointed brows are quirked in annoyance; perhaps even distain, and Richard can tell right away, from the other man’s bowed head and nervous chatter, that the old man is his superior. 

“We always knew this would take time,” Glasses was saying, staring determinedly at the floor, “This is something we’ve never come across before. It is extraordinary.” 

“I don’t care how extraordinary it is,” says the elder, sharply, “We need results.”

“I understand,” Glasses chirps, bopping his head, “We just don’t know how far we can push it – don’t know the limits of its power. If we push it too far, we could end up destroying it, and then all hope of harvesting it will be gone.” 

The old man stares at him for a long moment. “You have one week to come back to me with something worthwhile, or it won’t be me that you answer you.”

“Y-yes, of course.” 

Glasses watches, wide-eyed, as the old man sweeps away from him - once he’s gone, his sigh of relief is loud in the otherwise silent hallway. He fidgets, tugging at the collar at his throat uncomfortably, and the red badge swings teasingly from his neck. Richard starts forward, before he’s even aware that he’s moving, but the other man is quicker. He dashes into one of the doors in the corridor before Richard can reach him. It’s the men’s room. 

Barely believing his own luck, Richard follows, finding Glasses dosing himself with cold water at the sink. Richard can see his reflection in the mirror; bags are dark under his eyes and his cheeks are red and splotchy. 

Almost feeling guilty about making the man’s already bad day even worse, Richard draws himself up to his fall height, and advances on his back. Before Glasses has even sensed anything is amiss, Richard wraps his arms around his neck – in a strange embrace – and tightens his grip, just as Orlando had taught him. (Who knew Orlando’s advice would ever come in handy?)

Glasses flails in surprise – his eyes bulging in the mirror in both fear and confusion – but Richard does not release his grip. The man isn’t particularly strong, but he’s panting for breath, trying desperately to worm his way free, and Richard struggles to hold him. After an uncomfortable minute, when Richard notes that this is a lot more difficult than it looks, the man’s grip finally begins to slacken; unable to breathe, he slumps in Richard’s arms, and drifts into blissful unconsciousness.

Wrinkling his nose in distaste, Richard shuffles backwards, towards the toilet stalls, and bundles the limp body of Glasses inside. Shutting the door behind him, and praying that he’s out of the building before someone finds him, he lifts the red badge from the man’s neck and twirls it on a finger. 

He feels quite pleased with himself – he’s getting much better at this whole superhero thing. 

Richard makes his way back to the lift, and with a swipe of the card, descends into the basement. 

It has the same feel as the rest of the office – cold and impersonal – but much darker from lack of windows. The lift opens into a corridor, bereft of anything but the blinking of cameras on the ceiling, and rows of doors disappearing into the distance. 

Figuring he might as well explore, Richard makes his way down the hallway. He tries a few doors on his way, but they are heavy duty – made of metal – and do not open when he rattles the handles. He tries the access control card he’d stolen from Glasses, but it only works on select doors: one leads to an archive full of boxes of paperwork marked as CLASSIFIED, and another into a room full of scientific equipment. He attempts to search for any useful information, but soon deems it useless – he doesn’t know (or understand) enough about this stuff to know what’s important.

It’s at least twenty minutes before Richard comes across any people. He dips into a corridor different than the others, and finds it guarded by men dressed in white, guns strapped across their shoulders. The sight is a strange one, and Richard feels uneasy, for reasons more than just the obvious; something doesn’t seem right. He doesn’t think that the guards are there to keep him out – they are there to keep someone in. 

Richard hesitates, for just a moment, before gulping down his fears and attempting to find some courage. They can’t see him. What can they possible do?

Unfortunately, they can still hear him, and so, holding his breath, he tiptoes quietly down the corridor. The guards are muttering to each other, in low voices, as he edges past them, and do not seem to notice anything suspicious. 

The corridor branches out to another door, and just as Richard is wondering whether he can risk trying the access control card, so close to the guards, a scientist comes bustling out, brandishing a clip board. Without thinking, he dashes past her, and into the room, before the door swings shut behind him. 

He blinks, taken aback by the almost blinding lights, and almost runs headfirst into a group of scientists, clustered at the edge of the space. He skids to a halt, thanking his lucky stars they are all too involved in staring in an opposite direction to notice his flailing sounds, and takes in his surroundings. 

The room is very large, with pristine floors and an expansive ceiling. Medical equipment lines the walls – from heart monitors, to scalpels, and needles. But that is not what captures Richard’s attention. 

On the far side, there is a slab of metal, which reminds Richard of a morgue, upon which there is a body. It’s a man – tall and dark-haired – strapped to the frame, and hooked up to a mass of wires. He writhes, crying out in pain, and with a jolt Richard realises he is _alive _, before a scientist slices through the skin of his neck with a scalpel.__

Richard’s mouth hits the floor, and he is frozen, unable to do anything but squeak in horror and shock as blood pours from the gaping wound. The man is thrashing silently, gasping desperately for breath, before suddenly, for an unknown reason, he begins to calm. The blood – there is so much blood – starts to stem, and the wound – stretched from nape of neck to the base of his throat – is closing. 

The scientists begin to mutter excitedly, shuffling towards him, frantically scribbling in their notepads, as the gash closes completely. The skin, which had been torn to the bone, is now smooth and unblemished, and the man is slumped against his bindings in exhaustion. 

Richard’s jaw is still on the floor. 

The scientists dart forward to take measurements, of heart and blood pressure, and then file back out the room, talking amongst each other excitedly. It’s not for several minutes that Richard notices he is now alone in the room with the man, who looks groggy and unresponsive. 

Richard pads towards him – why, he doesn’t know? Maybe out of curiosity? Although he is quiet, his clothes rustle slightly in the otherwise silence of the room. 

The man’s face is slack, but his eyes are lucid and gleaming. They dart around the room in fear and confusion; Richard can see even from a distance that they are bright and green. Richard doesn’t want to frighten him – any more than he already is – but he can see the blinking red light of cameras in the corner of the ceiling; if he reveals himself, they would have only minutes before hell would descend upon them. Invisibility would protect him for a time, but it would be no use against a building in lockdown. There would be no escape. 

Instead, he approaches, slowly, as though advancing upon a wounded animal. The man, although weak, seems to sense something amiss. He is squinting around the room, breath heavy and panicked. His heart rate is rocketing – Richard can hear it on the monitor, now bleeping in alarm – and Richard is worried that the scientists will hear the commotion and come hurrying back. 

“Shh,” whispers Richard, against all better judgement. Ian is going to kill him. Kill him dead. If he survives this whole ordeal, that is. “You need to calm down.”

The man head swivels in distress, and he tugs at the needles embedded in his skin. “Who’s there?” he croaks, and Richard winces in sympathy. The man’s face is white, covered in sweat, stark and sickly against the darkness of his hair and eyebrows. He is young – younger than Richard first thought – although his face is missing some of its fullness, and long, dark eyelashes are damp with tears. Richard feels something tug at his chest. He can’t just leave the poor man here. Ian, be damned. 

“I’m here to help,” grumbles Richard in a low tone, close to the other man’s ear. 

The prisoner’s breath stutters, and he shakes his head with a wince, dark hair clinging to the wetness on his forehead. “So I’m imagining things now,” he whispers wretchedly, brow furrowed, straining against the bindings. “They’re trying to send me mad.” 

Realising that he is desperately running out of time, Richard tries a different tact: he takes off his gloves, stuffs them in a pocket, and places a sweaty hand around the man’s wrist. 

The man jumps, as though he’s received an electric shock rather than a gentle touch, and Richard has to clap his other hand over his mouth to muffle a cry of surprise. “Shh!” Richard hisses, into the prisoner’s ear. “Calm down. You can’t see me, but I told you, I’m here to help. I’m going to get you out of here.”

The man is almost hyperventilating beneath Richard’s palm, and after a moment, Richard feels the hot rush of tears. “You’re really there?” the man asks, in faint wonder, the words muffled by Richard’s hand.

He feels something inside him soften. “Yes,” he replies, and his fingers on the man’s wrist stroke gently in comfort. Despite the pain had seen inflicted upon him, the man’s skin is soft, unblemished. “I’m Richard – I’m like you.” He pauses for a moment, rethinks, and adds, in haste, “Well, not exactly like you. My power is invisibility.” 

The man chokes with something that could almost be hysterical laughter. “That much I have gathered.” 

“What’s your name?”

The man smiles and his face softens into something warm and welcoming, despite his distress. Richard can still see traces of it in the lines of his face, and cannot help but note that the man really must have been very beautiful. “Lee.” 

Nodding, despite knowing that Lee can’t see him, Richard tries to refocus. “Ok, Lee,” he says, “We’re going to get you out of here. Can you walk?”

Lee winces. “Not yet. The needles – they’ve put them in my legs and arms to stop me from healing. I can’t heal until they’re removed.” 

Richard takes a quick look at the wires imbedded in his skin and groans. He’s no doctor – he doesn’t know how to remove them safely – and as soon as the guards see Lee’s bindings being removed, they’ll have only minutes to escape. His power may hide him, but it will not hide Lee. Never before has he wished so much that his power of invisibility could extend to someone other than himself. 

“Ok, ok,” he says hastily, “We haven’t got long. As soon as they notice me freeing you, they’re going to come for you. We’re going to have to hurry.” He places a hand against the cold, wet skin of Lee’s chest – to which the other man blinks and jumps – and uses the other hand to tug on the first of the needles. Lee winces, although does not recoil. His expression is trusting, and Richard feels a sharp stab of anger that such a person could end up in such a place. 

“I’m going to remove them,” Richard explains, in what he hopes is a calm voice, although he’s pretty sure it’s significantly higher than usual. Lee nods his head frantically, and closes his eyes in anticipation; his face is already pinched with pain. “I’m sorry,” says Richard, lowly, sincerely, before pulling the needle free with a swift yank. 

Lee arches of the table with a soft cry, attempting to stifle his pain, his muscles straining, pulling against the bindings. The heart monitor is going crazy in the background, but it feels distant – a million miles away. Richard focuses only on Lee.

Blood wells upon the skin at the removal of the needle, and Richard watches, with open fascination, as the skin knits itself back together again. He wipes away the redness with the sleeve of his hoodie (oh, he’s going to regret that later) and the skin is smooth, pale, unharmed. Richard thanks his lucky stars for his invisibility, because he knows he’s staring, absolutely agog. 

It’s Lee soft and questioning, “Rich?” that brings him back to the present. 

Vaguely wondering if suffering torture together creates familiarity enough for nicknames – but finding that he really doesn’t mind – he moves to the other needles, and with a grimace of sympathy, removes them: 1, 2, 3….

Knowing now, that the guards must have realised something is happening (lest they are all sleeping on the job), Richard pulls Lee quickly to his feet. The man stumbles with a groan, upon slender and shaking legs, and Richard loops an arm around a thin waist to keep him upright. He’s tall – taller even than Richard, which is surprisingly enough in itself – and his skin is frigid to the touch. Up close, Richard can see the rough stumble of hair around Lee’s face – dark and slightly patchy – and the red circles beneath his eyes. He must have been toned and broad once, Richard can see it in his shape – although now he only looks thin and malnourished, far lighter against Richard’s side than he should be. 

“Do you know the way out?” Lee mumbles, his breath hot against Richard’s ear. He’s clenching his fists on the back of Richard’s shirt as support, and Richard’s knows it must make an interesting sight – Lee grasping desperately at thin air. “Please tell me you know the way out.” 

“Yes, yes,” says Richard with far more confidence than he feels. He fumbles with his pocket and produces the stolen ID card. He swipes the door and suddenly they are free, stumbling into the corridor and away from that terrible place. Richard hopes to never see it again - although he has a feeling it will forever be implanted in his memory, showing itself in his nightmares. 

They make it perhaps 10 metres before there is a screech of a siren. Lee trips upon shaking feet, held upright only by Richard’s grip, and Richard feels panic seeping into his veins. Lights are flashing along the corridor – the sign of a lockdown – and he can hear frantic movements, the rushing of people. They have less than a minute before someone finds them and Lee can barely move; his surface wounds have healed, but he is weak with hunger and inactivity. Super-healing will not solve that. 

“The guards are going to come,” Richard hisses, above the wailing of sirens. “You have to trust me.” 

A plan is forming in his mind – something heroic and ridiculous – something Orlando might attempt – but he has no other choice. They are trapped. 

“Trust you?” Lee yelps, in alarm. His eyes are wide and frightened. “What do you mean?”

“Lee, let me go,” he says, unhooking his arm from his companion’s waist and trying to edge away – but Lee follows him, blinking confusedly into the blank space, still clutching at the back of his shirt. 

“Rich,” he croaks, and Richard feels like his heart is in his throat – Lee sounds on the verge of tears, terrible panic welling in his eyes. Richard wonders how it’s possible to feel so protective over a man he’s only just met. “No, please don’t leave me again! I can’t stay here!”

“I’m not leaving you,” Richard insists, taking Lee’s hand and uncurling it from his clothes. He gives it a reassuring squeeze but he can feel it shaking. “I will be here, I promise you. Just stay where you are, stay calm, don’t move until I tell you to.”

Lee opens his mouth to say something, fingers still outstretched towards him, when the door at the end of the corridor burst open, and guards, dressed in white, stream in, guns held aloft and pointing directly at Lee’s quivering figure. Richard feels as though it’s akin to hunting a rabbit, and suppresses the urge to shelter Lee behind him. To his credit, the other does not back away – only looks at the guns with a tired face and glazed eyes, as though resigned to his fate. 

Through them, enters the white-haired, bearded scientist, who fixes Lee with a penetrating stare; he looks angry, but curious, as though Lee is a toy that’s such suffered an unexplainable malfunction. He tilts his head in questioning. “Mr Pace,” he greets, faux-friendly, and with a jolt Richard realises he’s talking to Lee. “You freed yourself, I see.” 

Lee’s eye twitches, but he does not contradict them. Richard is glad they have not yet realised there’s outside involvement – he still has the element of surprise. He edges down the corridor, barely breathing, away from Lee and towards the guards, ready to strike as soon as a finger comes close to pressing a trigger. 

“Curious,” continues the scientist, when Lee does not seem inclined to say anything. “I thought you were too weak to free your binding yourself. How did you get out?”

Lee says nothing again, although Richard can see his throat bobbing. 

“Silence will not do you any favours,” says the scientist, in a hard voice. He strokes at his beard, thoughtful. “You know we have methods to make you talk, so why don’t you save us some time.”

Lee’s face crumples at the thought, true distress shining in his eyes, and he edges backwards, mumbling, “Rich?” in a frightened voice. 

The scientist’s head snaps to attention, and he asks sharply, “Rich? Who’s Rich? You’ve never mentioned a Rich before.”

But Lee is not paying him any more attention. He’s looking about the corridor, as though hoping Richard will materialise, and suddenly the scientist knows something is wrong. “Someone is here….” he breathes, in realisation. 

The guards look at each other in confusion, and Richard knows he has seconds before they react, and so, without thinking, punches the first directly in the face. The man crumples to the floor with a cry, clutching at his bleeding nose - although Richard doesn’t feel too guilty about it - and the others all spin around in surprise. 

They blunder towards him blindly, waving their guns at each other, as he delivers calculated blows to the backs of their legs, necks and stomachs. 

“Something’s here!” they yell, into the din, but Richard dodges around them, dispatching them one by one. He’s a tall and strong man, a capable fighter, but it’s the invisibility that gives him the advantage – they cannot shoot blind without hitting each other. 

It’s turned into a brawl, and Richard is now sure some are even fighting each other, when he attention is drawn to Lee, struggling with a guard at the other end of the corridor. The guard is trying to stop him escaping, yanking him back by the hair, but Lee is a tall man – previously well built – and is not submitting quietly. He struggles, arms flailing, and the guard, pushes him away with a cry of frustration and draws his gun. 

Richard’s heart is suddenly in his mouth, and he’s driving forward, but he’s too far away, he’s not going to get there in time, until –

“Stop!” cries the scientist, in a booming voice, “Don’t shoot him! He’s too valuable to die.” 

The guard pauses, and that’s all the time Richard needs. He smacks the man brutally between the eyes and the guard topples back into the wall. 

The scientist watches him fall with wide and calculated eyes, glinting with realisation, and suddenly Richard knows that he’s made a mistake. The scientist points directly towards him with a shaking hand, and cries, “Shoot there! Shoot there! It’s there!” 

The two guards remaining spin towards him, guns raised, and Richard is open, exposed – they are not going to miss. He braces himself for the impact, eyes closed, and dimly – as though from far, far away – hears a bang. But he feels nothing. 

There is a familiar cry from in front of him, and he opens his eyes to see Lee staggering backwards, coughing weakly and bleeding profusely from the stomach. He stumbles and falls, his hands wet with blood, desperately trying to stem the bleeding. Richard is frozen in disbelief, both that he is still alive and that Lee had intercepted the bullet to save him. 

“No!” exclaims the scientist, rushing towards Lee, Richard seemingly forgotten. “No, no, no. Months of research lost if he dies!” 

Seeing the scientist reach towards a quaking Lee finally spurs Richard to action. He dispatches the final two guards with two solid blows to the back of the head with the butt of a gun, and hurries to Lee’s side. The man is spluttering up blood, his lips bubbling, and his eyes – for the first time – are dim and unfocused. The scientist has produced a penknife from his lab coat pocket, and Richard realises with growing horror, what the man is about to do. 

He shoves the man away with all his strength, and the old man crumples back against the wall, unconscious, penknife loose in his grasp. 

“No, Rich, he’s right,” rasps Lee, reaching a shaking hand forward until he finds the labels of Richard’s shirt, and latches on. “You need to get it out. I can’t heal otherwise.”

This was not what Richard has in mind when Ian asked him to do some recon. “I can’t,” he cries, “I might kill you!” 

“I will die if you don’t. Don’t worry, I will heal.”

“It’s still going to hurt.”

Lee laughs, but it’s a thin and reedy sound – as though blood is seeping into his lungs. “You don’t say.” The sarcasm is faint, but there, and the sound is strangely comforting. 

“You crazy man,” whispers Richard, and he can hear the affection in his own voice, “Why did you do that?”

Lee shrugs, shoulders shaking, as though it’s no big deal. He coughs, and the sound is wet and weak. “You saved me, it only seemed fair,” he wheezes. “Besides, I’ll heal, you won’t. I’ve survived bullets before.”

Richard hates to think about when Lee was shot with bullets before. He thinks back to the lab, with all of its torturous equipment, and shivers in sympathy. He will get Lee out of this horrible place if it kills him. 

With unsteady hands, he grips the penknife, and places a placating palm against the weeping wound, staring at the ripped flesh with wide eyes; he’s glad Lee cannot see his face, because he’s pretty sure he’s lost all colour. The wound is not as large as he feared, and he can already see the bullet, lodged just below the ribs. He takes off his hoodie and presses it against the wound to try and clear some of the blood. He’s stalling, he knows, and they don’t have much time. Lee’s breath is heavier, and he seems to be losing consciousness, to which Richard is glad. He would rather Lee be asleep for this.

He takes a deep breath, whispering, “Sorry, sorry,” before he’s even begun, and buries the knife into the wound. Lee jumps with a howl, twisting away instinctively, but Richard holds him down by the hip. He presses the knife in further, blood now trickling freely down Lee’s sides, and finds the bullet; he tries desperately to dislodge it, but he’s sure he’s tearing something, and Lee is sobbing, before he passes out from the pain. His body slumps and his eyes have drifted shut, but he’s still breathing shallowly, his chest rising and failing in a unsteady rhythm. 

Knowing he can’t stop now that he’s begun, Richard raises his free hand from where he was digging his fingers into Lee’s hips and uses his fingers to try and free the metal. It’s warm and slippery, and Richard is dimly impressed he has not passed out either, because there is blood everywhere, and he’s got his fingers inside a bullet wound, when he finally gains purchase on the small fragment of metal. He pulls, and it slips free into his hand, and he’s never felt so relieved. 

He stares at it for a moment, in sheer disbelief, that tiny bullet that had caused so much damage, before scrambling to check that Lee is still ok. He places bloodied hands upon Lee’s neck, leaving red fingerprints in his wake, but is pleased to feel the rapid pounding of a heartbeat – still strong. He lets out a breath, his own heart thumping painfully against his ribs, and watches, with a strange fascination, as the bullet wound begins to heal. It’s much slower than the previous wounds, perhaps because the damage is greater, but something is definitely happening. The muscle is reknitting, and the blood begins to stem. Lee is still unconscious, although his eyelashes are fluttering with movement, and colour is blossoming on his face. 

Unfortunately he doesn’t have time to wait for Lee to wake; backup will be arriving soon, and he doesn’t fancy watching Lee get riddled with more bullets. He tucks Lee into his bloodied hoodie, attempting to offer his bare skin even the smallest of protection, and with some difficulty, heaves the taller man onto his back. 

For a moment, he’s glad Lee is thinner and that he’s actually been working out at the gym – he would not have been able to carry the man otherwise. His feet are already dragging against the floor and Richard’s muscles are screaming in protest. But he can move, and that’s all that matters. 

He whips out his stolen ID card, hoping to avoid the guards by using the back entrance he had seen on the security monitors, and strips a guard of his gun. If anyone tries to stop them again on their way out, he will not hesitate to shoot them.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote most of this over the Christmas holidays, but didn't want to post until the majority was written - I don't like having multiple WIPs running at once, because I am useless at updating. This is probably 1 of 3.


End file.
